Chapter 6
___
Bev
He won’t let it die. So what if I had googled him? I had my reasons, but he doesn’t need to know them. If I explain I want the info on why he punched the exec, then I can guarantee I’ll never get it from him. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have looked too closely. Just like him. All ego, no attention to detail.
He kicks his feet up on the dashboard. “What’s your favorite album of mine?” he asks with obvious satisfaction.
“Put your feet down.”
“I don’t know that album. But then again. You are the super-fan.”
“Nate, stop!”
“Now, I realize your slow-clap was the ultimate compliment. It was like your brain was so blown away that’s all your body could manage.”
“My body manages just fine.”
He makes some kind of sound. A snort? I don’t care. I need to turn this around. “So what’s with the exec? ”
The energy changes, grows more muted. “Nothing,” he grumbles.
“Joe knew about it.”
“Well, some of it is public knowledge.”
“You assaulted the exec? Does that mean you punched him? Or something else?”
All the glee has disappeared. Now, he’s glum Nate. “Can we just listen to my music? I’m sure you’ve bought all my albums.”
“Did you work with the exec or just walk up to someone on the street?” I feel like a detective growing hot on a lead, and I must confess it’s rather exciting.
“Jesus Christ, Bev, it’s public knowledge. Just fucking check TMZ.”
“I have!”
His eyes whip to my face, studying me. I expect him to say something, to make fun of me for checking. But he doesn’t.
“Why, Nate? Why did you do that?”
He looks out the window for so long I almost thought he’d forgotten to answer the question. "That’s not public knowledge,” he says softly.
___
We arrive at the shelter to a hero’s welcome. Chandra and Janice greet us in the parking lot. They both sing “We Are the Champions” for some reason. Maybe because they think Nate would approve. It seems to work because he grins, that big flirty smile, and takes a bow.
I hold up Sir Carrots the Third’s carrier, and everyone peeks inside, cooing at him. He seems utterly unaware he was almost the main ingredient in a stew. Ignorance is bliss. I firmly believe that—especially when it comes to being eaten.
After we all settle back into our roles in the shelter, I find myself replaying the situation with Joe in my mind.
What did Joe mean that “the exec had it coming?” Was he assuming the best about Nate, or does he know something that I don’t? Something that can be found online?
I grab my phone and lean against a wall in the break room, so Nate can’t come up from behind and see what I’m searching.
For what it’s worth, I’m aware I’m getting sucked into his orbit. I’m like a moon to his planet. My interest hasn’t reached levels of obsession or degraded into our high school ways, but it’s not exactly healthy. It’s like when you tell yourself, “I won’t eat any more sugar today,” but then you decide one last cookie wouldn’t hurt. Or “I’ll just scroll through social media for thirty seconds more before getting back to work,” which then turns into an hour.
In other words, I’m aware that when I bargain with myself, it’s the equivalent of letting a kindergartener babysit herself, leading to markers on the wall, empty packages of Skittles scattered like confetti, and THE LITTLE MERMAID playing on repeat to such an extent it short-circuits the Roku.
But in my defense, I’m great with what I love. Animals, no problem. People, even, no problem. It’s just these moments where it’s like, “One more thing and then I’ll do whatever,” that’s my kryptonite.
So here I am: One last Nate search.
Because I need to know. Why did he do it? Was it an ego thing? A falling out?
So I decide to do the unthinkable.
Join Nate Hart’s Facebook fan club page.
I obviously can’t join under my own profile, so I create a throwaway account. I decide on the name: Nate McMediocre. I can’t bear to gush.
I scroll through boring pictures of Nate looking into the distance like he’s some Great Thinker or Nate wailing on the guitar. Meanwhile, I try not to upchuck my breakfast from any of the nauseating comments.
Such a stud!
Wish you’d play me like that! ;)
I feel like I’ve known you my whole life!!
I’m about to give up. Who could possibly stomach this?
“ I feel like I’ve known you my whole life ”—take it from someone who has known him his whole life. You don’t want to know him. In high school, he once threw a greasy pepperoni at my forehead. And then he ate it.
So, yeah.
But just as I’m raising my finger to close out the app—I’ve learned that lesson well—I see a link to an article. An article I haven’t seen before.
“Nate Hart Punches Scooter Albrecht.”
With a gasp, I click it.
My eyes skim the words, almost faster than I can make sense of them. I have to read the article twice-over before I can finally slow down enough to piece it all together.
Essentially, just as the title states, Nate punched Scooter Albrecht. Apparently, Scooter is the son of a famous music exec, who himself was the son of a famous music exec. The Albrecht’s own an island and a winery in France. Needless to say, the family doesn’t seem like they’re struggling.
But, unfortunately, there’s no info as to why .
Was it over money? The article focuses mainly on the Albrecht’s many assets.
Should I “follow the money” like they say in movies?
I don’t know if that makes sense for Nate though.
Music? That makes more sense.
As much as I’d love to keep searching, I do cut myself off there. I can’t be a complete delinquent. The animals need me, and truthfully, I need them back. After all, I love ‘em.
I don’t interact with Nate and the Four D’s—which he probably wishes is the Five D’s—for the rest of the day. I can get by with doing my stuff, and he’s got a good handle on his own.
At the end of the day, though, I peek my head into the cat room before I leave.
He valiantly swings the door open and closed for Alberto who stops to figure eight through Nate’s legs. I can hear Alberto’s purring from across the room, which makes me happy.
“Have a good night!” I say cheerfully.
“Bye.” He shoots me an expression then. A twitch in the corner of his lips—those goddamn, perfect lips—and my heart jumps.
If only an internet search would explain what that expression means.
__ _
I make one of dad’s favorites for dinner: split pea soup with ham. It’s not really a summer dish, but it’s not quite yet summer anyways. I also make a special treat for Feline Dion as well.
When Dad and I finish eating, he says, “Beverly, I’d like to give you something.”
I’m surprised by this. While I love my dad very much, he’s not particularly the giving kind. He once gave me a blanket for my birthday, but when I tried to bring it back to the city, he said he’d keep it at his house. “But it’s my gift?” I’d asked.
“You can use it here,” he’d said.
I was confused because he started using the blanket on his own bed, so even when I came home to visit, I could never actually use the blanket.
So I found the idea that he wanted to give me something a bit perplexing. Plus, it wasn’t even my birthday or Christmas.
“Come with me,” he says.
I leave the dirty plates on the table. I’ll clean them up later.
I follow him, feeling pretty excited. My dad got me a gift. Me!
He leads me into his bedroom and pulls a box from the top drawer of his bureau. It’s brown, worn, smoothed down with love.
He pops it open and inside is a small gold charm necklace of a wiener dog. “It was your mom’s,” he says. “She loved animals too. ”
I hold it up, admiring how cute it is. The gold twinkles in the light. It reminds me of a pup I found in high school at the park, also a wiener dog, who I then adopted. I spent a glorious eight years with her. “You kept it all this time?”
He doesn’t meet my eye. “Some things are hard to give up.”
I’m beyond grateful as I hold up my hair, so he can clasp it behind my neck.
I can’t help but think there’s a reason he’s giving it to me now, and I just hope it’s not a morbid one. He is sick after all. Does he know something I don’t know? Do I need to worry more than I already am?
A knot grows in my throat. It makes it hard to swallow.
I spent my whole life wishing for a dad who gave me things, not necessarily big things, but parent things like orange slices at a big game or a few bucks from the tooth fairy. A parent, who thought of me enough to do that, and here I finally have it. But he’s on his way out of this world. I’m grateful for this time—I really am.
I just wish there could have been more.
___
I don’t dare wear the necklace to sleep. I don’t want it to break.
I have complicated feelings towards my mom. She left us after all. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about her every day, if I didn’t wonder what advice she would have given me if she’d stuck around. God, what I would do for that advice. Just one piece. One simple sentence. I’d trade everything I owned.
But here I am, covers too hot when they’re on, room too cold when they’re off. I can’t quite seem to get settled. The only thing that soothes me is Nate’s song of all things. About the constellation in the northern sky. About steadiness and mystery. About searching and family. After all, the constellation got its name from the mother of Andromeda. Cassiopeia. The vain mother.
Sure, I wonder if the song is autobiographical, or if it is, how much of it is. I wonder how such depth can seem to come from someone unexpected like him. I wonder what his life is really like. I saw that house his parents lived in. I know they don’t worry about bills or some kind of medical emergency or a roof leak that could destroy their lives as they know it. But what else is there? Who is he really?
I glance at the necklace on my bedside table, twinkling in the moonlight. And I remind myself there’s more to life than Nate fucking Hart.
Like my promotion.
I haven’t exactly shown Chandra that I work well with Nate. First, she walked in on me yelling at him, and second, there was the Sir Carrots rescue, which shouldn’t have been necessary.
So tomorrow: I’ll prove to Chandra that I have managerial skills. I’ll show her I can ace the Four D’s.